


Basement

by orphan_account



Series: Terrible and True [4]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-14 23:25:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2207004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fun part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Basement

Tuesday, December 21, 1999

It’s amazing how easily such a simple routine can be disrupted by a 6'3'' stranger knocking you out cold with one shot.

Both men consider Lovera at their feet, splayed out and unconscious with a fresh flurry of snow settling on top of him. After a beat Numbers makes sure nobody’s watching and moves for the door, leaving Wrench to lug Lovera inside and downstairs.

Numbers nonchalantly walks across the shop and flips the sign before turning the lock and drawing the curtains. The lights go out next and he feels a jolt of energy, as if the electricity’s being rerouted and transferred to his own body. This next part’s the fun part—maybe the only fun part of all this. Extracting information beats the hell out of the long car rides and prep work and stalking, that’s for sure. And maybe this chat with Lovera will give him something to think about besides the fragments of last night that he would much rather forget.

When Numbers leisurely saunters downstairs he finds Wrench hovering over the unconscious, rapidly-bruising man, now gagged with a dirty bandana and bound to a desk chair with a truly excessive amount of duct tape. Numbers takes in the space they have to work with: just like the shop above, Lovera’s basement is an absolute shit hole, and Numbers frowns at the mouse traps on the floor and the piles of boxes on all sides of him, overflowing with yellowing pages of sales logs and inventory counts. The room’s even more mold-scented than anticipated, and the smell sours his hungover stomach. But it’s windowless and isolated, and he supposes it’ll work just fine for what they have to do.

 _“Ready?”_ he asks Wrench, who nods resolutely without any trace of yesterday’s hesitation.

Wrench kicks the chair, and Lovera shows early signs of stirring. Numbers moves too, and starts circling him like a hawk zeroing in on its prey, his footsteps dulled against the worn, thin maroon carpet.

Lovera’s on the brink of consciousness, his eyelids closed tight as he begins to register the pain throbbing in his forehead. Numbers’ even, low voice dribbles through the haze. "Hey! Look who’s awake! We were getting worried.” Chuckling, Numbers slips his hands into his pockets and changes direction, pacing the other way, his hushed, roaming voice serving to further disorient their captive. “But now that you’re up, let’s talk  _money_ , Antonio. Specifically, let’s talk about how you owe some of our friends a whole lot of it. What should we do about that?"

The man’s only answer is a low whine as his eyes finally open. Sweat all but rains from his increasingly-swollen brow as the room and his captors slowly filter into view. Once his vision sharpens with as much focus as his addled mind will allow him he fearfully glances from Numbers, to Wrench, and then back to Numbers. Both strangers look absolutely demonic in the yellow light from the single bulb that sways above them, and he briefly wonders if he’s woken up in hell. His wrists uselessly strain against the tape binding them to their respective arm rests as his gaze flits again to the taller man, who appears capable of snapping his neck with his bare hands.

The bearded guy’s voice snaps his focus away from the man in the fringe jacket. "Now that we’ve got you here, we should work out a solution to this problem. The three of us." Numbers stops mid-stride and bends low over Lovera, just inches from his face. His breath is hot and vile against his cheek as he pulls the corners of his mouth up into a wicked smile, his white teeth contrasting sharply with his beard. "Won't that be nice? Getting to the bottom of this, once and for all? That’s what we _all_ want, really.” He holds his arm out, including Wrench in this gesture. “And all you've gotta do is tell us where you stashed the money. Some friends of Fargo are really broken up about all this, you know."

Wrench taps Number's shoulder, drawing his attention away from Lovera, whose eyes are wide with confusion and outright terror. It’s clear that he didn’t see this coming, but then again “bright” is one of the few things he’s never been accused of being.

 _"Let's hit him some more,"_ Wrench offers nonchalantly.

Lovera seems to get the gist of what Wrench is signing, especially as he observes Wrench’s fist collide with his left hand’s index finger, and he whines louder still.

"Shut up!" Numbers barks, flicking Lovera right on his bruise and eliciting another muffled yelp. He faces Wrench again, readopting his calmer demeanor.

Lovera's eyes dart around his basement, not taking in a single thing that could save him if he could even manage to get to it. His attention falls back on the men as they continue to make their utterly foreign signals to each other.

_"I know how you usually conduct business, but we’ve been over this. We’re not gonna beat the shit out of him unless we need to.”_

Wrench jerks his shoulders in his usual over-exaggerated manner. _"Need to get him talking. He's gotta admit what he did. I can get it out of him."_

 _"We need him **conscious** if he’s gonna fess up,” _ Numbers signs impatiently. _"You've already scrambled his brains tonight. He's probably..."_ But as he begins that thought it dawns on Numbers that he doesn't know the sign for “concussed,” and he hesitates. He rolls his eyes at his own ignorance and finger-spells “concussion” to his partner instead, feeling more than a little embarrassed. That feeling heightens when the hazy memory of their conversation at the bar reemerges.

Wrench sighs but shows him how to sign it anyway, pointing at the side of his head and then moving both his hands in front of him, accompanying the motion with a dopey face.

Numbers sheepishly repeats the gesture minus the matching expression to Wrench’s approving nod, and vows to commit that to memory before continuing. _"If he pukes in here I’ll lose it. Hold tight. You can hit him all you want later, I promise."_ He crosses his heart and gives Wrench what he considers a winning smile.

Slightly softening his expression, he looks from Lovera to Numbers and bobs his head. Even though they’ve talked through what they plan to do dozens of times it’s much different watching Numbers in action, and now that they’ve begun he holds a few reservations about whether they’ll be able to find a happy compromise. All he knows is his old partner didn’t talk so goddamn much.

Right on cue with Wrench’s thought, Numbers dives back into it: “Y’know, Antonio, we wouldn’t be here if you had repaid your debt. Six months was plenty of time to do that, don’t you think?” The sweetness from his voice disappears, his words no longer drenched in anything appealing. “Because that’s what he thinks,” he points to Wrench, “and he wants some answers.”

A nod is exchanged between Lovera’s captors and Wrench cracks his knuckles. Lovera flinches with every pop, shaking his head and mumbling stupidly into the bandana. It’s too easy to terrorize this guy, and Wrench can’t help himself from cracking his neck for good measure.

“You ready to talk to us? Answer some questions?”

Lovera hysterically nods in agreement, arms slackening a bit against the duct tape.

“Alright. Good, good. I’m gonna take the bandana out of your mouth. No screaming. Only talking.” Numbers puts a hand on each side of Lovera’s face, looking him dead in the eyes. “And don’t try to bite me, either. I won’t appreciate it.”

Despite his searing headache, he frantically jerks his head up and down some more and allows Numbers to proceed. As Numbers’ fingers work at untying the knot Lovera keeps his gaze fixed on Mr. Wrench, who stands behind Numbers with his arms crossed. Both men are unquestionably dangerous, yet Lovera decides that if he had a say in who his tormentor was he’d much rather roll the dice on the bearded guy.

With the gag removed, Numbers takes his first swing. “We’ll start simple: where’s the money, Antonio?”

“The money…? What are you talkin’ about?” Lovera takes a deep gulp of musty air in a futile attempt to steady his breathing. “I turned it over two weeks ago!”

_“Well?”_

“Two weeks… Two weeks, at least. Gave it all to Fargo…”

 _“Says he gave it back,”_ Numbers signs, ignoring Lovera’s repeated mutterings, _“Says two weeks ago.”_

 _“Ask him who picked it up,”_ Wrench says, suspicious. _“Get a name.”_

 _“I will, I will,”_ Numbers guarantees, refocusing on their captive. “Who’d you give the money to? Give us a name. Tell us what he looked like. Be as specific as possible,” he tilts his head, his voice condescendingly sweet as he adds, “Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”

It’s hard enough for Lovera’s pounding head to concentrate without Numbers stooping over him and his calloused hand on his cheek. “He was blonde. A tall guy—a young guy, uh…” he tries to jerk his face away, but Numbers’ touch turns rough, forcing Lovera to face him. “His car had Minnesota plates,” he continues, sweat pouring down his face. “Mr., uh… Mr. Carver!”

“Carver, huh?”

“Yeah! Yes, Mr. Carver! Gave him a suitcase full of the cash, just like he asked for. You know him right? You fellas… You know Mr. Carver, right? Right? Yes?” His eyes frantically flash between the men, desperately hoping his story checks out.

The name doesn’t ring any bells, so he deflects to Wrench. _“You know a C-A-R-V-E-R at Fargo?”_

_“Yeah, why?”_

“Does he know him? Does your friend know him?”

“Pipe down for a second, Christ,” Numbers says, his hands signing, _“Tell me about him.”_

Shaking his head in puzzlement, Wrench tells Numbers the little he knows. _“Cooks books at the main office. He’s a jerk.”_

_“What’s he look like?”_

_“Tall like me, but heavy. Older than you. Bald,”_ Wrench thinks a moment longer before adding, _“Nice teeth.”_

Numbers wonders whether Wrench is trying to piss him off or make him laugh. _“Nice teeth?”_

“H-hey, fellas,” Lovera shakily interjects, his greasy hair now soaked with sweat, “do you know Carver?”

Sighing heavily, Numbers drops down, bracing his hands on his knees and studying the man. He angles his head from one side to the other before breaking into a wide smirk at Lovera’s perplexed stare. “Funny thing is, my friend does know Carver. And the man you described?” He pokes a finger at Lovera’s growing bruise, each staccato jab more forceful than the last. “That’s. Not. Carver.”

Lovera squirms and uses his feet to try and scoot the chair away from Numbers. Wrench is at his side in an instant, his heavy hand gripping the top of the seat and preventing him from moving so much as an inch backward. When the man leans forward for a second attempt he’s met with Wrench’s palm in his chest, slamming him into the back of the chair.

“No,” Lovera whines, his head feeling as if it’s being filled with fog, “I dunno what else to tell. Carver said—he said to me, ‘Fargo appreciates your cooperation,’ and then took all the money, every dime, and drove off! I swear on my nuts that’s what happened!”

Numbers stands to his full height, squaring his shoulders and frowning. _“Not budging. Hit him.”_

“Wait—!” Lovera shrieks as Wrench draws his fist back. A second later his head is ringing and everything’s cloudy again.

Wrench rubs at his knuckles as Lovera’s shoulders shake. When Lovera turns his head up his face shines with tears that stream thickly downwards, gliding over the new bruise building on his cheek and dropping to his garish teal shirt. “Telling the truth… Not lying…”

“Antonio?” Numbers interrupts, wincing with disgust as some snot oozes from Lovera’s nose. “This isn’t looking very good for you, if I’m being honest here. Fargo was very, very specific with their instructions. You were supposed to meet two of our guys in Watford City last Sunday. Why were those directions so fucking difficult for you to follow?”

“Carver came into the shop. He said…” his neck slumps but Wrench is right there to help him keep his focus, grabbing a fist full of what’s left of Lovera’s thinning hair and tugging his whole head upright with it. “Ah! Said Fargo sent him and the plan changed, and I had to meet him in the park that night. Said I had to bring the money and everything would be square.”

Numbers relays all this to Wrench, who releases Lovera’s hair and turns the information over in his head a few times before offering, _“Sounds like he got set up.”_ His lips set into a thin line and he observes Lovera’s twitching, crying form.

 _“Maybe,”_ his hands juggle, _“but how does C-A-R-V-E-R play into this? How’d this guy know to use that name?”_

_“Don’t know. Might be working with somebody inside Fargo.”_

_“You’re saying we have a rat?”_ Numbers asks with a raised eyebrow, not ready to ascribe to this theory, _“Trying to frame C-A-R-V-E-R?”_

Wrench paces a bit, pausing in front of a stack of boxes. _“Not saying that. Not **not** saying that, either. No way to tell right now. We need more information.”_

 _“We do **not** want to deal with a rat,”_ Numbers signs emphatically, _“Too messy.”_

 _“We might not be. No way to tell yet,”_ Wrench repeats, his hands itching to do something besides argue. Lovera’s been compliant enough, not struggling or resisting where most of their other marks would. And while that’s fine for Numbers and even better for Fargo, that leaves Wrench with little to do besides glare and grow bored.

“Look—I’m sorry!” Lovera exclaims, breaking up the conversation. “I didn’t know! He seemed legit, I’m sorry! Just… Just let me go. I won’t tell anybody about this, alright?” Pitiful and desperate, fresh crocodile tears leak from his eyes.

“See, here’s the thing,” Numbers starts, all traces of saccharine sweetness in his voice replaced by a monotonous drone. “We feel for you, we really do. It sounds like somebody pulled a fast one on you, Antonio, and we hate to see that happen. But you know who we are and where we’re from. It’s nothing personal,” he whispers, his hand reaching out and smoothing Lovera’s rumpled hair, “it’s just business. You understand, right?” Frowning, he wipes the sweat and grease from Lovera’s hair onto the guy’s bright shirt.

“Please...” Lovera moans, the pain in his throbbing head eclipsing all other thoughts. No one grabs his head as it droops forward this time.

Wrench’s lip-reading skills are barely mediocre, but he can gather enough from the last exchange to know they’re not going to make any more progress right now. _“Almost done?”_

_“Might be able to get more from him. Still haven’t asked him about his first drop.”_

Lovera’s barely conscious now, his chin resting on his chest and his eyes glassy. _“You’re not gonna get anything from him now. Let’s get a pizza.”_

 _“We can’t just leave him here,”_ Numbers objects.

In need of an outlet for all of the remaining aggression he allowed to build up inside him for this job, he turns and roughly shoves the chair, tipping it over with a grunt.

Lovera regains enough cognizance to cry out as he and the heavy desk chair topple to the carpet below. Out-and-out sobbing now, he turns away from the men and buries his face against the dirty rug, his cries interspersed with pleas for mercy.

Numbers arches an eyebrow at Wrench. _“Feel better?”_

Wrench shrugs, then grabs the bandana and bends low to gag Lovera again. _“I was right about the money, at least,”_ he says, standing upright. _"He doesn't have it."_

_“So what?”_

Grinning, Wrench shoots back, _“So you’re buying me dinner.”_


End file.
